


Caught In My Throat

by mix_kid_ao3



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Branding, Consent Issues, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Double Anal Penetration, Established Relationship, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gags, Gang Rape, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Object Insertion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painful Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Prostitution, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23943130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mix_kid_ao3/pseuds/mix_kid_ao3
Summary: When the farmer had let his eyes linger on Geralt, sized him up, the witcher had stared back with just as much scrutiny. He was not pretty, but he was old enough that Geralt felt confident accepting his offer of alternative payment.Geralt had bedded far more vile men for a room and he would do so again.Geralt prostitutes himself and it doesn't go according to plan.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 181





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to Llama1412 , No_notea , WingedQill , and Nanero11 for encouraging me to write this one ❤️
> 
> Heed the tags, additional warnings for this chapter include Geralt being gagged with Roach's bit, some brief moments of femeninization/dehumanization/self blame, and Geralt is degraded by implying he fucks the other witchers.

Geralt shifted his weight and puffed softly into his hands. The cold bit at him and he pulled his cloak tighter over his summer clothes. His armor is sat freshly cleaned in a farmer’s spare room with Jaskier, and his only warm set of clothes had been burned early in the fall. He had yet to find a tailor willing to accommodate him.

Winter’s first snow fell quietly around him, sticking to his eyelashes and dampening his clothes. Ever the optimist, Geralt was grateful that one man in the backwoods village he and Jaskier had found themselves in was willing to shelter the bard and Roach for the night. He shivered again behind the farmer’s barn, anxiously awaiting his arrival.

When the farmer, Robert, had let his eyes linger on Geralt, sized him up, the witcher had stared back with just as much scrutiny. He was balding and thick around the middle but his hands spoke to the life of a working man. He was not pretty, but he was old enough that Geralt felt confident accepting his offer of alternative payment.

Geralt had bedded far more vile men for a room and he would do so again.

Finally, Robert beckoned him to the barn’s entrance. Inside, an oven gave off a dim light. Geralt stopped, barely past the threshold. Something wasn’t right.

The soft shuffling he had assumed to be livestock while he waited revealed itself to be the restless footfalls of men. They varied in age, each holding a length of rope and a knife or club. Geralt turned slowly, counting ten. Robert shut the barn’s door and the witcher’s stomach dropped. He carried no weapon and wore no armor.

“I didn’t agree to an audience,” Geralt breathed.

He knew men took what they wanted, regardless of what was agreed to. He knew men didn’t listen when he asked, didn’t slow when he begged, didn’t stop when he said that’s far enough. Nothing short of being thrown off stopped men when they set their eyes on a witcher. Still, he needed to try. Jaskier had gone through far too much trouble to bury his title of butcher, he deserved better than to have his hard work squandered over a couple of voyeurs.

Robert chuckled behind him.

“They’re here for more than just a look, witcher.”

Fear gripped his insides as the men circled. He lunged towards the door, ducking past one man before his cloak and shoulders were grabbed by three more. Geralt tore the cloak off but he was already surrounded. Four sets of hands gripped at his upper body, two more at his sides. He thrashed wildly and felt the back of his head connect solidly with a man’s nose. No sooner than he dropped was he replaced. Geralt snarled and bucked, flexing his wrists when he felt rope against them. His efforts were wasted, for these were men well accustomed to trussing beings larger and stronger than themselves. With his hands out of the way, they came for his boots and trousers.

Geralt stood his ground when they tried to force him to his knees, growling and snapping at those who let their faces and fingers too close to his. They kicked at his knees and calves until his legs gave out under him. His knee scraped over a jagged stone in the dirt floor as he writhed to escape. The change in position gave the men the angle they needed to kick at his stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs.

He heaved as two of the men broke off to drag a bench over. He was thrown onto the bench by a rough boot between his shoulder blades and he scrambled fruitlessly to get his feet back under him. The men laughed as they watched him slide against the dirt floor. The pair who had carried the bench held his shoulders down while a number of men worked to secure his bare thighs to its legs. His ankles were caught in rough hands and pulled up. Geralt struggled all the more as they worked to bind his ankles to his thighs, leaving him unbalanced and incapable of lashing out while his wrists were held.

The men leered around him, a chorus of degrading remarks. Tears burned in Geralt’s eyes but he refused to let them fall. Robert moved to stand before him, grabbed his jaw firmly, and wrenched Geralt so their eyes met. The witcher ground his teeth and glared, hair wild from his struggling. He seethed with anger even as dread stole the color from his face. He was acutely aware of one particularly brave man as he rutted against the witcher’s exposed ass.

“I had thought you’d be harder to subdue, Butcher of Blaviken. It seems you don’t quite live up to the songs.” Robert knelt and let his face dangerously close to Geralt’s to whisper in his ear. “Or perhaps you want it?”

Geralt surged up causing the bench to rock dangerously. The men rushed to settle him at the same moment Robert slapped him. He narrowly missed having the skin of his ring finger torn off when Geralt snapped at him.

“The bitch needs taming.” He turned to a spindly young man. “Go get his reigns—”

“Touch Roach and I’ll fucking kill you,” The witcher spat, rage saturating every word.

They took no heed of him and the boy ran off. Geralt strained under his bonds, tensing and relaxing with pent up energy. A bottle was uncorked and Geralt ducked his head. Hands pulled his cheeks apart even as he clenched. A finger prodded at him, wriggling its way into his insides. His back flexed helplessly and nausea washed over him, panic cloying in his throat.

Someone reached for Geralt’s cock as another finger entered him far too quickly. He snarled in vain, breath coming in short bursts. Sharp stinging bloomed on his back, and when he turned his head he saw a man held a riding crop. The crop came down again when he shifted his hips away from the fingers fucking into him. A third finger was added and they fanned inside him, causing bursts of pain to shoot up Geralt’s back.

“Look how well he takes it. He stretches so nice but he’s still so tight,” a man laughed.

The witcher groaned as he curled in on himself as much as the bench would allow. Humiliation weighed as heavily on him as the men pressing into his shoulders. As the energy in the room built the men who had yet to touch him grew restless. Hands petted over his back and raised arms, curious fingers poked at his face but were quickly scared off by his quick jaws. The soft space where his thighs met his body was explored and the hand stroking his cock turned painful.

Men were shoed away to make room when the witcher’s ass was deemed ready. Geralt writhed even as the crop bit into his skin knowing he wasn’t nearly stretched enough. Still, the man lined up and began to sink in. His progress was hindered, Geralt too dry and too tense, but he didn’t pull out or add oil. The witcher tried relaxing, going limp to ease the slide in, but the pain of the intrusion, crop, and the punishing grip on his dick had his body cringing. A few tears slipped out even as he took measured breaths through the pain.

The door opened and the young man returned, Roach’s bit and reins in hand. He passed them off to a fat-fingered man and Geralt stared in horror as the bit Vesemir had given him was shoved towards his face, glinting in the low light. He gagged but refused to open his mouth as the bit was pushed against his lips. The man took a fistful of the witcher’s hair to gain some leverage while another man pressed under his ears. Geralt cried out and the bit was shoved into place. The metal tasted of grass in an utterly repulsive way. It dug into his palate and lips, entirely the wrong shape for a humanoid mouth. The reins were handed off to someone behind him.

While Geralt had fought the bit the man impaling him had pushed in a considerable amount but had yet to bottom out. He pulled back briefly before snapping his hips into Geralt’s. With that last measure of force he was fully seated. The witcher’s hands clenched and fanned, scratching at whatever flesh they came in contact. A broken moan of pain ripped itself from his chest as his body protested. His resolve was chipped away with every thrust until tears ran down his face, hot and shameful.

Bored hands continued to play with Geralt’s body as he was fucked. Too-fast too-hard thrusts caused stars to dance behind his eyes and his breathing came in choked sobs. The reins were jerked, pulling his head back and exposing his throat. He squirmed even as the crop fell across his back time and time again, desperate for anything that might stop the continued assault.

When the thrusts jarring his body became sloppy, frenzied motions Geralt pulled against the reins. The bit strained the corners of the witcher’s mouth as he shook his head, a silent plea. He knew nothing stopped men once they’d set their eyes on fucking a witcher. The man’s hips stuttered as he came. Geralt huffed wetly, shifted his hips, clenched his jaw around the bit as mortification flooded him.

His body jerked when a blade was pressed into his thigh. He would heal from a fucking, a stab wound to the inside of his thigh, however, would be much less assured. Rather than plunging into the meat of his thigh, the knife was dragged to make a short, thin line. Geralt experienced no relief when the knife was pulled away as the man inside him slid out and within moments another took his place.

One thick hand gripped Geralt’s waist hard enough to bruise. He could only assume the other held Roach’s reins as he was yanked backward until his chest was lifted from the bench. If the first man had been rough, the second was barbaric.

Geralt’s mouth ached against the bit while his back and neck both burned with the stretch. His shoulders strained with the unnatural position as the man pounded his hips into the workbench’s sharp edge. His body trembled with exertion. With his chest lifted idle hands took the opportunity to abuse Geralt’s nipples. They dug sharp nails into the sensitive skin, pinching it red and puffy.

“It’s got nice tits for a male,” one man jeered as he pushed Geralt’s pecs together to give the impression of cleavage. “And such pretty hair. Must get lonely, witchers all being men. I bet this one takes the other’s cocks real nice, much as she’s enjoying this.”

The comments sent Geralt into a fresh wave of sobs. He would have shaken his head if he could, denied every word until his dying breath, but the reins prevented him from doing so. Even so, one statement rang true. While neither man had cared to seek out his prostate as of yet, the hand on his cock alternated between painful and pleasurable, and as the sensations intertwined Geralt found himself growing hard.

The beast spilled himself inside Geralt and another tick was cut into his thigh. He whimpered and cried, exhausted from his writhing. The third man to fuck him was tame in comparison but the impatience of the seven waiting more than made up for it.

“I’m tired of waiting,” one demanded when the third tick was marked.

Several shouts of agreement went up. Anxiety pickled over Geralt’s skin as he strained to hear the men’s overlapping conversations through the rushing in his ears. Something was pressed to his hole, something distinctly inhuman. The witcher screamed behind his bit.

The slicked handle of one of the forgotten clubs was worked into Geralt’s ass, the wood thick and unyielding. His face contorted with pain as it was forced deeper, deeper, into his battered body. Men clambered over each other to watch as his rim was made to stretch wider than it ever had. With their keeper distracted, the reins went limp, and without a bridle the bit fell from Geralt’s mouth alongside his broken groans. Each thrust of the club felt like a punch from the inside out, a too-full feeling settled in Geralt’s throat.

The handle widened as it went on and the knots in the wood caught at Geralt’s rim in ways that made his vision white. Even dripping with oil as it was, it took time to stretch Geralt wide enough. Days seemed to pass as they dragged the club in and out of the shivering witcher. It was unclear whether the fluid running down his thighs was blood or excess oil, but he knew he was done for when the damned thing was rammed into him and swirled inside.

By the time the club was withdrawn Geralt was a drooling, exhausted mess. Tied as he was, hung over the side of the bench, there was nothing to be done except watch the men’s shuffling feet. He managed a whine as two men stood and a choked sob when they pushed in together, but hadn’t the energy to fight it. A man knelt in front of him and gripped his hair, forcing his head up.

“Fight’s all gone from you now, eh?” He bounced the Geralt’s head in a nod and laughed.

Assured the witcher was docile he chanced putting a finger in his slack mouth. When no consequence befell him he shoved another in just to watch him choke. A sadistic grin spread over the man’s face and Geralt’s stomach turned. The man undid his trousers and with a grip on snow white hair he made himself at home in the witcher’s throat.

“Just as well then, if he hadn’t shaped up I was thinking his bard could pick up the slack, but seeing as he’s learned to be a good bitch I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

The thought of Jaskier going through any of the things done to him since the sun had set was enough to force Geralt’s mind to retreat into itself. Time passed in vague blurs, measured only by the garden of slashes growing over Geralt’s thighs and intermittent bursts of pain. He imagined Jaskier and the comfort he would give if he knew until the thought turned sour. He didn’t deserve comfort for being overpowered. He deserved to be hurt if humans without a single mage among them could reduce him to such a state. His weakness, unbecoming of a witcher, was the result of his own lack of discipline.

Geralt only came back to himself when he felt the ropes holding him come undone. His muscles screamed after being held in the same position so long and blood rushed back to his hands, adding to the ache. No longer supported by the bench, Geralt let himself sink to the floor. He curled in on himself and breathed deeply. When a hand met his cheek Geralt grounded himself in cataloging his injuries and how long they’d take to heal. The hand didn’t hurt him, just patted his sore cheek and retreated.

“You showed us a good time, I think you deserve to be rewarded,” Robert crooned.

He stared at the man through half-closed eyes, exhausted and miserable.

“How does the song go again? ‘At the edge of the world fight the mighty hoard that bashes and breaks you and brings you to mourn’ or something like that.”

Geralt’s empty stomach dropped at the familiar words. Robert turned to the other men, all of them dressed and well sated.

“Why don’t we toss a coin to our witcher for his services?”

The men sang as they dropped coins over Geralt’s abused form, soiling his fondest memories of the bard. Jaskier always sang, and that didn’t stop when they fucked. He remembers one specific occasion, an early morning somewhere in Novigrad, when Jaskier had hummed the lyrics into Geralt’s chest and giggled something about how they really should get some ale, something about the flush in Geralt’s cheeks looking sublime as he had thrust lazily. The scene felt tainted as Geralt laid on the dirty floor, covered in other men’s cum, men who had beaten and raped him. His chest jolted with choked off sobs as he worked to distance the thought of Jaskier from the men around him.

Eventually the men left, off to their own homes and wives and beds. The thought of returning to Robert’s spared room made _disgustfearshame_ coil tightly under Geralt’s breast. He stared at the rafters. The fire in the stove burned out and the cold crept in. Still, Geralt laid bare on the floor and refused to move. The misty blue of dawn filled the room slowly. It was only when the light gathered into sunbeams that the witcher moved.

He looked himself over carefully. Bruises lined his wrists and hips, welts on his back and sides. Rope burn and cuts made alternating stripes over his thighs. The pain in his ass was a chore to push aside as it flared, agitated with every move.

Nausea weighed heavily in Geralt’s throat and stomach as he carefully retrieved his clothes. They were mostly undamaged even after his struggling, only a small and easily mendable tear in the side of his shirt, for which he was thankful. He focused on similar details even as his stomach rebelled.

At least none of them had frozen to death.

A peek out the window told Geralt it hadn’t stayed cold long enough for there to have been any real threat. It was shaping up to be a sunny day already.

At least the men had given him some coin for his trouble.

It wasn’t enough for new clothes, let alone a new bit and reins for Roach.

At leastRobert’s original proposal included breakfast.

It wasn’t guaranteed, the man had broken their agreement already. Geralt wasn’t sure he could keep anything down either way with the nausea plaguing him.

The events of the last eight hours were left behind, dead and buried in the barn, when Geralt stepped out. He did his best to mask the awkwardness of his gait even in the quiet of the morning. When he made his way into the house he did so silently.

Jaskier was curled around a pillow in the spare room, his hair stuck up endearingly. Disgust pooled in his gut at the knowledge that the other had fallen asleep waiting on him but it mixed with the relief of seeing Jaskier unharmed. He pulled his swords from their resting place as quietly as possible and sat near the foot of the bed. With the door in view and sword in hand he fought to keep his eyes open. Anxiety hummed beneath his skin but still the exhaustion weighed on him. He was dragged to sleep before he even realized his eyes were closing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional warnings for this one, just some general anxiety.

Geralt jolted awake when a hand touched his arm. He pinned the offender with his sword to their neck before he had the chance to open his eyes. Panic raced under his skin, the events of the past night flashing through his mind. The being yelped but otherwise let itself be manhandled. Geralt reoriented himself with his surroundings hazily, and when the smell of pine and chamomile filled his nose and Geralt abruptly realized the being at the end of his sword was Jaskier. 

His body heaved as he lowered the blade, shuffling in to bury his face in the bard’s neck. He muffled and half-formed apologies fell from his lips. Jaskier stroked his back and the sore muscles fluttered under the touch. The fear seeped from him, and weariness took its place. His thighs stung from the cuts under his clothes and his stance felt unbalanced with the burning ache in his hips. 

“Nightmares, Love?” Jaskier’s other hand came up to massage the base of the witcher’s skull through his undone hair.

Geralt hummed in response, giving nothing away. He must have lost the tie in the barn during the night. He didn’t want to think about the barn.   
Jaskier made a sympathetic noise and began rocking them gently. The motion hurt but Geralt stayed his tongue.

“Rather unfortunate to have nightmares after you were out so late. I tried to wait for you but I guess I didn’t make it, needed my beauty rest after all,” he joked lightly. “Good news though, while you were out our most gracious host prepared breakfast I am sure is going to be delicious.”

All the tension that had left him in the bard’s arms returned, and with it the sickness from the night before. He stepped back, running his hands along his arms where gooseflesh had risen. Jaskier gave him a concerned look, scrutinized him for a moment, then went on. 

“We ought to get out there before the food gets cold.”

He reached for Geralt’s sword and the witcher forced himself to let go. The bard sheathed it and propped it against the wall where it had been before. He pulled a citrus-scented perfume from his bag and dabbed it behind Geralt’s ears after receiving a hesitant nod. Geralt rested his hands on Jaskier’s hips as he breathed deep, letting the overpowering smell drown out the rest. Jaskier couldn’t smell the men on his clothes but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. The constant reminder did nothing to help his nausea.

Geralt ran a brush through his hair while Jaskier pulled a spare tie from one of their bags. The bard made a scene of wanting to do Geralt’s hair himself, though his dramatics were undercut by his intermittent laughter. The witcher turned to let Jaskier at the white strands but his breath caught in his throat when the other’s thin fingers made contact. He froze as Jaskier fiddled with the tie, a sudden anxiety in his chest at not being able to see the person holding his hair. His hands came up to his throat without his noticing.

Jaskier came back into his line of sight and Geralt shook off his unease. One of his hands was taken between Jaskier’s as a kiss was pressed to his temple before they left the room.   
When they exited the room Jaskier dropped Geralt’s hand as always. Their affection was their own, and though they had done the same countless times, the motion now felt like a betrayal.  
Robert was watching a pan of crackling sausages when the pair entered. He turned, eyes locking on Geralt’s, and something squirmed in the witcher’s gut at the attention. Geralt sat down at the table and moved his chair closer to Jaskier’s as inconspicuously as possible.

Plates of sausage and fresh bread were placed before them and Geralt’s mouth watered even as his stomach protested. Robert seemed a perfect gentleman in the daylight, a startling contrast to the man who had fucked Geralt just hours ago. He tried to make small talk as they ate but Jaskier kept the focus off Geralt with emphatic gestures and quick subject changes. The witcher struggled through half the plate but his nerves kept him from the rest. He mourned the lost meal. 

“There’s a market today, you ought to go. Maybe you’ll find something you like before you leave town,” Robert said conversationally.   
Jaskier brightened at the prospect, listing supplies they were running low on and weaving stories of market days in bigger and better towns. 

***

The market was made up of a small collection of vendors, none excessively impressive but that wasn’t surprising in a town so small. Jaskier dragged him by the hand, chattering incessantly at every stall. Geralt forced himself to hum when the bard pointed out whatever trinkets caught his eye. 

Anxiety hung over Geralt like a cloud. He couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on him as they walked, and the constant stopping and starting made his injuries flare. He recognized a number of the men they passed, knew them to be monsters and said nothing of it. 

Jaskier’s attention was snared by a ring display. There were several styles, time and effort clearly put into every piece, but Geralt’s attention was preoccupied by the vendor himself. He watched, stomach in his throat, as the vendor’s fat hands pulled rings from the case for Jaskier to try on. The witcher’s heart raced in his chest as he watched, memories flashing through his mind as he remembered those same hands forcing a bit between his teeth and bruising his hips. 

Geralt’s stomach turned as he watched Jaskier exchange money for three rings. Two were gaudy, thick rings, as per his usual preference. The third was a plain silver band, unremarkable and exceedingly delicate for the bard. The reason made itself apparent later in the day, when the pair sat down to snack on a couple of apples they had bought at one of the other stalls. 

“I still couldn’t find a pair I thought we would agree on but this one suited you so I thought it might work as a placeholder,” Jaskier smiled as he slipped the ring onto Geralt’s pinky. 

Conflicting emotions rose in the witcher’s chest. Adoration for the bard, excitement at the thought of their impending marriage, unofficial and illegal as it would be. Revulsion at the thought of what the ring’s maker had done to him. He wore it anyway, forcing himself to appreciate the gift for what it was rather than where it had come from. The phantom taste and feel of the bit still plagued him every time the metal shifted against his skin.

***

When they returned to gather their things Robert was waiting for them. Geralt went to pack their bags while Jaskier thanked him for the hospitality. The witcher listened closely for any indication that anything more than talking was taking place as he moved. He took a vile of Cat from his bag, absently thumbing its top. As the conversation went on Jaskier’s voice took on an excited note, though Geralt couldn’t make out their words. When Jaskier came back he was smiling. 

“How would you like to take a holiday,” he said.

The witcher grunted, confused. 

“Robert has offered to house us for the next week in exchange for a couple of performances in town and some help around the farm.”

Geralt’s stomach dropped. He didn’t want to stay, in fact, he had very much been looking forward to leaving town, but Jaskier’s face was so hopeful. He was always looking for excuses to take a break from the Path and there was no better excuse than a virtually free room. Except Geralt knew, it wouldn’t be free. 

“Absolutely not,” Geralt hissed.

“Come on,” the bard whined. “Just tonight? It’s already late, we really shouldn’t be setting out with the sun as low as it is. Go talk to him if you need to be sure but you deserve a break, goodness knows my feet could use one too.”

The witcher glared for a moment, studying Jaskier carefully. Excitement showed in his body language even after Geralt’s protests. His mind was made up. 

Geralt sighed heavily. “One night.” 

Jaskier beamed and Geralt pushed past him to the cottage’s main room. The witcher stood with his arms crossed in front of Robert, silent and stony. The man looked up at him, a grin slowly breaking out across his face. 

“So, what’ll it be? Are you staying?”

Geralt said nothing. The silence dragged on, the man’s smile unfailing.

“I’m not doing that again,” the witcher said, jaw tense. 

Robert laughed, then spoke quietly. “No, of course not. I just thought you might need a rest before you get back on that mare of yours.”

Geralt snorted, turned and stalked back to the room. Jaskier had unpacked their things again, seemingly assured they would be staying. The witcher set to sharpening his swords in a corner. While his fears had been put to rest anxiety still bubbled beneath his skin. He let the repetitive motions, in conjunction with Jaskier’s composing, wash over him. He settled somewhat but remained on edge.   
When the sun went down Jaskier called Geralt to the bed as he tucked his lute back into its case. Geralt laid down and let himself be maneuvered so the other’s head rested on his hip. They stayed there, Jaskier drawing a lion in the back of one of his composition books and Geralt watching the lines take shape, until the bard finished. He rolled over to look at Geralt, mischief in his eyes. 

“I don’t suppose you would be so inclined as to let me suck you off tonight?”

Geralt shoved a pillow into the bard’s face and pushed him off his chest. He laughed but didn’t push, instead blowing out the lamp and snuggling into the witcher’s arm.   
The interaction left a cold feeling in Geralt’s chest. He was tired, yes, but more importantly, he didn’t want Jaskier to see the marks. He knew the bard wouldn’t be angry with him, they each indulged in their fair share of partners, but something about what Robert had done to him felt shameful. It made him nauseous to think about, the same as any time he had slept with someone for favors, but there was something especially degrading about how vulnerable he had been. 

Geralt laid there and willed his breath to come evenly until the sun peeked through the curtains.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for branding :)

Geralt fell asleep sometime in the early morning and woke with the first signs of light. He watched Jaskier through half-lidded eyes until the bard stirred. He held a fragile hope that the bard would be ready to set out immediately, that, having seen all the town had to offer, his wanderlust would take over and they’d leave. That hope was dashed when he saw the sleepy contentment in the other’s eyes. He was happy, and there was no way Geralt could convince him to leave that until he was ready. 

Their stay was solidified over breakfast when Robert brought up payment. Jaskier had agreed to sing in town in exchange for their bed and his eyes brightened with the reminder. 

A sick feeling made itself at home in Geralt’s stomach and throat at the thought of Jaskier going out alone. He had been subdued, and hurting Jaskier would be child’s play in comparison. Further, Geralt dreaded spending a moment longer in Rober’s presence. He berated himself, ashamed of the effect a simple farmer had on him. Still, anxiety crawled under his skin and he found himself listening for signs of unannounced men. The promise that he would not be hurt in such a way again did little to soothe his worries. 

When he made to follow Jaskier he was stopped. Robert had a gutter in need of fixing and insisted Geralt stay behind to mend it. Jaskier agreed, assured he could protect himself in a pinch. Geralt was less certain. His bargaining was quickly overruled. He made sure Jaskier had his knife before he left, nervousness curling in his gut. 

Geralt’s anxiety came to a head when a man approached him from behind while he worked to fix the gutter. He watched for a moment, taking in the witcher’s form until Robert exited the cottage. The men greeted each other amicably. While Geralt could recall no specific cruelties brought by the newcomer’s hands he did recognize him, which he considered reason enough to keep his swords nearby. When the gutter was mended Geralt was called in for lunch, his unease twisting and folding in his gut all the while. 

Lunch was a tense affair. The witcher sat with his back to the wall, watching the two men. They discussed menial topics: the weather, the harvest, a tart that had been getting herself into trouble as of late. At first they spoke as if the witcher weren’t there, no doubt under the impression he either did not care for their gossip or would do nothing if he did. Geralt told himself it didn’t matter, that if they tried anything he would run them through without hesitation. His hands fidgetted regardless. 

As the conversation drew on the energy in the room shifted. They spoke of the girl, things she had done at first, but they quickly became enthralled in describing what they would do to her, given the opportunity, and what they liked out of a partner. Their ramblings revealed sickening, depraved fantasies. The discomfort between his shoulder blades seemed to grow like a weed, the men’s words acting as soil, sun, and water.

Their fantasies became general, then grew specific. The men seemed to regard him with hungry glances from the corners of their eyes. It was clear they were no longer speaking of hypothetical women, but of and to Geralt. In danger of losing control of his stomach Geralt stood abruptly, intent on waiting for Jaskier outside. 

“Oi, witcher, where the fuck do you think you’re going?” 

The bread knife Robert had been spinning on the table suddenly took on a menacing air. Geralt set his jaw firmly and growled a simple “out.” 

“Not without permission you aren’t,” Robert said. “Sit your ass back down.”

Geralt’s nerves sent electricity buzzing under his skin. He weighed his options carefully. He could leave, there was no way either man could stop him, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be consequences. Alone, neither was especially threatening, but Geralt knew any harm that befell them would be avenged by at least eight more. As he considered Robert’s companion grew impatient. His excitement was palpable, and an ultimatum was given to speed along Geralt’s decision. 

“Leave now and the bard pays for it.” 

The witcher sucked in a breath and pivoted to face the men. They grinned, knowing they had found something to exploit, and Geralt cursed himself for his transparency. 

“If you don’t sit back down I send James here to fetch the others and they show your friend what we got up to in the barn the other day,” Robert promised. “I figure he can run quite a bit faster than you can get your horse ready and ride to town, considering you’ll not be running with that limp.”

Geralt knew he was right, though he had hoped he’d been hiding it better. His hips ached even walking the short distance from the chair, running was out of the question. Geralt moved back to the seat, limbs stiff and breathing shallow. Pleased with his choice, Robert’s companion, James, downed the last of his cup and pulled a rope from his pocket. The witcher’s hands were pulled behind the chair and bound. He shuddered at the feeling. 

He attempted to soothe the whine growing in his throat with deep breathing but instead found his own fear mixed headily with the scent of the men’s arousal. A tremble built in his fingers. He assured himself they couldn’t fuck him with his ass against the chair but the thought did little in the face of their traded speculations of what tortures would most becoming. 

Robert’s eyes lit up with an idea. He dragged the chair and subsequently Geralt further into the center of the room then moved to stand behind him. He grabbed the witcher’s wrist harshly. 

“You see that ring on his finger?” Robert asked. James hummed in affirmation. “That’s Danny’s work. Ain't it witcher?”

Geralt bit his tongue. Robert carried on undeterred. 

“I say if he wants a memento so bad we give him something he can’t lose.”

Geralt saw an answering flash in the other’s eye as he questioned. “What are you thinking?” 

Robert gestured towards the fireplace. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat, certain nothing good could come of the flame. Sweat broke out across his neck and forehead, panic hot and cold and choking all at once. James seemed to know what the man implied even if Geralt did not, and he nodded excitedly. Robert set off through the door, leaving Geralt to occupy the other man’s attention. 

James set about undoing his belt and an instinctive rush of fear ran through Geralt. Rather than taking out his cock the man folded the belt over itself. Expected a lash, the witcher was taken by surprise when the belt was shoved between his teeth instead. The taste and smell of worn leather filled his senses as his eyes rushed over his surroundings, desperate for some chance at escape. 

Robert’s return sent Geralt’s stomach to his throat. He huffed behind the makeshift gag. The man carried a brand. Geralt writhed in the chair, shuffled his feet, pulled at the rope. Half-formed syllables died behind the gag as the witcher protested, begged. His attention focussed entirely on the heating metal as it shifted from the gray of castiron to yellow and finally, a glowing red. 

The chair rocked under Geralt and Robert handed off the brand. He leaned heavily on the witcher’s knees, an easy smile on his face. Geralt shrank back into the seat, struggling futilely to draw in more air.

“Fight it, and James here sets the boys on your friend. Bite, and they do to your bard twice what we did the other night. Choose your actions wisely, because I may just send him off for a bad look. Am I clear?” he reiterated. 

Geralt let his eyes roam the man’s face in search of a bluff he knew he wouldn’t find. He nodded hesitantly, hands clenched behind him. Robert smiled wider and pat his cheek before moving behind him.

James pulled the brand from the fire. Glowing as it was, Geralt belatedly realized it was shaped to leave a curving R. The air around the metal rippled with heat. 

Robert let his hands linger on the witcher’s chest as he undid his black shirt. He placed his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and pressed firmly, stilling him as his body debated whether to tense or go limp. The man’s breath was hot on his ear when he whispered into Geralt’s ear. 

“Just a little something to remember us by.”

The brand was pressed to his chest quickly and efficiently even as he bucked. When the brand made contact there was a single blissful moment of nothingness. For that second Geralt was left hyperaware of everything except the brand. He felt the bite of the rope, the heat of Robert’s body, the hardness of the chair, and the smell of leather. The nothing-everything moment was followed by a stinging under the brand, dull at first but it quickly shooting veins through the surrounding tissue. The sting built upon itself, cutting sharply until it seemed to fill every part of him. The pain smoothed until it was no longer an epicenter sending out shocks, but rather an all-encompassing ache that pulsed with his heartbeat. He choked and sputtered behind the gag. When he had air to give he howled. 

A new pain layered over the ache when the brand pulled away. The air seemed to make its way into the burned flesh, burrow as deep as the heat reached, and leave burning cold pockets in its wake. The pains did not blend or add to one another. They remained separate and respectively agonizing. Geralt was vaguely aware of the scents and sounds of his flesh searing in the open air. Colors flashed behind his eyelids at the sensations, though he could not remember closing them. 

His stomach turned with the smell of burned meat and worn leather. He sobbed into the gag. James reached forward to pull the skin surrounding the brand taught, admiring his work, and Geralt could do nothing to stop the way his body convulsed to escape the touch. When the blackened tissue was released it was as if his strings had been cut. Geralt slumped, whimpering at the radiating, pulsing, nauseating pain. His jaw worried the belt as his fingers twitched, sweat-soaked hair covering his eyes. 

He was left to ride the aftershocks. When the beginnings of sunset crept through the cottage windows the brand was dressed and he was released. Robert was not in the room when he came back to himself but Geralt found himself too exhausted to care. He ambled towards the guest room on shaking legs, hips and legs and chest aching. He dug through his bags until he found a healing potion. The fizzy texture hardly registered to Geralt’s pain-addled mind.

The bed seemed to call to him, and he listened. He fell onto the bed, biting back cries when laying down shifted the brand. He couldn’t find the energy to worry about what might happen to him while he slept. When he awoke his injuries would be healed and he Jaskier would be back, safe.


End file.
